


Look Inside Your Mind

by etrix



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alison Argent Makes a Different Call, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode Related, Episode: s01e11 Formality, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Reaction, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Werewolves, Wordcount: 15.000-25.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etrix/pseuds/etrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sheriff Stilinski stopped Allison, she said “I’m not like this” meaning she wasn’t a crybaby. What if it meant something different? What if she didn’t buy Kate’s justifications, and told the sheriff that Derek Hale was being tortured in the basement of his old house?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stability Just Means Standing Still

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my awesome betas: Alecto_nyx and 0ok4m1, neither of whom had watched the show. 0ok4m1 especially deserves recognition for taking the time to watch season 1 in order to give me better notes. Arigato! (If you spot any other errors, please point them out to me. I love to make my writing better!)
> 
> Title based on a line from [“Run Honey Run”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84sHbIvDC0I) by Morcheeba.
> 
> Longer author’s note at the end.
> 
> ETA: 4 Apr 2018 - Minor edits made (SPAG stuff). I'm sure there are more, so if you spot any, please let me know.

Stilinski hated night patrols.

He doubly hated rainy night patrols. So when the car passed him doing 75 in a 25mph zone he muttered “Ah hell,” but he still turned on the lights and the dash-cam, and called it in to Rita back at the station so she’d know what he was doing.

The car in front of him showed no signs of slowing, and Stilinski upped the risk from “idiot driver” to “impaired idiot driver”.

He hated rainy night patrols where people didn’t take a taxi home from whatever party they’d gotten wasted at, forcing him to pull them over on deserted roads. It was risky enough being a cop, but being a lone cop stopping a maybe-aggressive-and-possibly-armed drunk driver was more risk than he generally liked. However, he’d known the dangers when he’d taken the job, and if Beacon County was turning out to be (a lot) more dangerous in the past six months than in the previous six years he’d been sheriff, that was just too damn bad.

He blipped his siren, just a couple seconds worth. Hopefully, the noise would get the driver’s attention where the lights hadn’t. He didn’t want to call in some other patrol, but if this turned into a pursuit. He’d do it in a heartbeat. He couldn’t risk something happening to him—he still had a son to raise.

His hand was on his radio when the unremarkable sedan slowed and pulled to the curb. One danger down.

He ran the license plate and his eyebrows went up. He’d met Victoria Argent. He’d be hard-pressed to name more unlikely person to drink enough to not be in complete control of herself and her environment. Still, that’s what the computer was telling him. It could be stolen. Joyriders or carjackers would explain the out-of-character driving. Carjackers didn’t usually pull over though…

What it all came down to, was that he got to exit his dry vehicle to maybe argue with the maybe-aggressive-and-possibly-armed driver, and since it was raining, there was the added bonus of developing pneumonia later on. Oh yeah, he loved his job.

Well. He did actually. Even the cold, rainy parts.

He climbed out, settled his heavy belt more comfortably, and approached the vehicle with caution. He gave the unopened window three sharp taps with his flashlight before shining it at the fogged-over window, hoping to see the driver.

The window eased down and his nebulous fear of nefarious events was erased as soon as he saw the long, dark hair with the loose curls framing a pale face with large dark eyes. “Alison?” He aimed his mag-light to better illuminate the inside of the car, watching her pupils. “You alright?” Now he could see her clearer, her eyes seemed redder than they should. Maybe he was wrong about the intoxicants.

“Sorry, I was going so fast. I didn’t realize I–”

Her voice trailed away, and he wondered what she hadn’t realized. That she wasn’t in any fit state to be driving, because now that he could see her, she looked closer to crying than intoxicated or careless.

“I…” Allison tried again. Suddenly one sob escaped then another, and then she was crying in earnest.

“Oh, no,” Sherriff Stilinski shifted uncomfortably. “Okay, alright. Ah… Listen, you weren’t going that fast. Just seventy-five in a twenty-five.” He sighed and finished it. “In a construction zone.”

“I’m not crying to get out of the ticket,” she protested, and he believed her. “I’m just, um… I don’t want you to think I’m like this.”

“No. S’okay,” he responded, very uncomfortable. She was so young, and he knew some of her history thanks to Stiles knowing it via Scott. She might as well have been an army brat for all the moving she’d done, and that was never easy. “It’s perfectly okay. Um…”

“No, please, write me a ticket,” She ordered, voice shaking. “I need you to write me a ticket, okay?”

“Okaaay,” he replied hesitantly. He didn’t want to write her a ticket—he wanted to give her a hug. “I don’t see how that’s going to make you feel a whole lot better.”

”This is so humiliating. I swear I’m not like this.”

“I understand.” He murmured because he _did_. No teenager liked to think they weren’t strong enough to deal with everything. “Are you hurt in any way? Are you injured?” He asked the questions, because making her take stock of her physical state might've taken her mind off her emotional one, but it was like she didn’t hear him.

“This isn’t me,” she chanted shakily. ”This isn’t– This is not me!”

The sheriff revised the possibility of danger—not to himself, but to Allison if she kept banging on the steering wheel like that.. “Woah,” he murmured soothingly. “It’s okay.” he kept saying it until she actually seemed okay.

“This is not me,” she stated again, but this time her voice was firm. She took a steadying breath before turning to him. “I’m okay.” She cleared her throat, tucked her hair behind her ears. Then she tipped her head and peeked at him sideways.

Stilinski braced himself...

"I'm okay. But Derek Hale needs help.”

Huh.That wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all.

.o0o.

 

Allison shuddered, wishing she didn’t know what torture sounded like: electricity into flesh, steel bars crackling... She wished it was yesterday. Or last month. Last month everything had been… It had been better. Great, in fact. Sure, it had been another new school, but there had been Scott, Lydia and Jackson, Danny and Stiles, but mostly Scott, who hadn’t cared that she was a year older with weirdly over-protective parents.

Except, maybe they weren’t so weirdly over-protective. They’d known—of course they’d known—that werewolves were real. They’d known because they hunted werewolves. Hunting them down, torturing them and killing them. And they’d chosen not to tell her any of it.

“Oh, God.” Allison’s breath hitched.

The sheriff didn’t hear her, which was good. She’d embarrassed herself enough in front of him. Although, when he talked to her, when he’d been looking at her and asking her questions, it had at least taken her mind off where she’d just been, what she’d seen…

It wasn’t a beast Kate had chained to the bars. It wasn’t the Beast of Gévaudan with its red eyes and long claws _._ It was Derek Hale. Derek Hale, who was surly and a little scary, yes, but he wasn’t an animal.

Or at least, Allison would never have suspected he was anything other than a broody loner with a bad reputation. Would never have thought him capable of killing his sister, or the bus driver, or any of the others. But then, she’d never expected her aunt to enjoy torturing a sentient being. 

They’d stood vigil together, remembering the victims of the Holocaust. Kate had signed the petition to free Sea World’s orcas, for god’s sake.

And yet, Kate had smiled as she ran bolt after bolt of electricity through Derek Hale’s body. She’d said it was okay because Derek wasn’t human. She’d said it was for a good cause because they needed to find the second beta, but she hadn’t even asked him any questions.

Why hadn’t Kate asked Derek about the other werewolves, Allison wondered now that she was away from that horrible place?

“How you doing, Allison?” Sheriff Stilinski’s voice was so kind, so filled with concern that it was enough to break the dam

.o0o.

 

“…and then she said she was looking for the other beta, but she didn’t ask him any questions. She just turned on the battery and let him scream.”

The sheriff listened again to Allison telling him that her aunt, Kate Argent, was currently holding, and torturing, Derek Hale. He had no problem believing her aunt would do something that. After all, he’d discovered an undeniable link between the Hale house fire and Kate Argent. If she’d been willing to kill nine Hales then—some of them children—she sure as hell wouldn’t hesitate to torture one of them now. He could even believe a woman that sick would encourage her niece to join her.

It was the _other_ stuff she was saying that he had problems with…

“She told you he was a werewolf?” he asked, needing it repeated.

Allison gave him a Look. “She didn’t just _tell_ me. She turned on the electricity and he… Roared. And his _teeth_ … Fangs.” She waved at her face. “And his _hair_.”

“Oh boy,” Stilinski muttered. It was bad enough that the aunt would probably argue insanity, but if his main witness backed her up?

Time for plan B.

He waved Allison to silence. “Look, Allison. Legally, I can’t question you: you’re a minor; you’re obviously under a great deal of stress, and your parents aren’t here—”

“You can’t call my parents,” she panicked. “They can’t know that I told you.”

Not exactly unexpected, but still inconvenient. “I can’t let you drive like this.” She looked at him with large, pleading eyes. They were very effective, and they would’ve worked if years of Scott hadn’t made him immune.

“How about I call Scott?” he offered. “He can drive you home.”

She smiled like he was superhero. “Okay, yeah. I'd like that.”

His cell phone rang. He stepped away from Allison to respond. It was Deputy Graeme reporting that she’d pulled in all available units and they'd be leaving the station in 15 minutes.

“If you beat me to the site, make sure they all grab protection, _and_ that they put it on.”

Deputies in Beacon Hills were supposed to wear protective vests whenever they were on duty, but it was usually such a quiet town they often didn’t. The sheriff let them get away with it, because he hated the vest, too—it was hot, heavy and uncomfortable. And crime-fighting in Beacon Hills rarely needed it. For this, however, he’d told Tara to order everyone into Kevlar and gas masks. He couldn’t stop thinking that Kate’s family sold weapons. Hell, he’d seen some of Chris Argent’s stock—9mm handguns, shot-guns, semi-automatic assault rifles, tear gas and flash-bangs. Kate Argent could have any combination of those items hidden in that basement.

“Copy that, Sheriff,” Tara responded. “Just like you ordered.” Tara Graeme was a great second-in-command. Years of teaching and trained her to not take anyone’s BS and she could organize better than anyone else in the department—even him.

He pulled out his phone and dug out Scott’s number. It rang only once.

 _“Hey, Sheriff. What’s up?”_ Scott sounded stressed.

“You’re not in trouble, Scott, and your mom’s fine,” he said right off.”

 _“Oh. Okay. That’s good._ ” Scott’s voice lightened.

“I’m calling because I need your help.”

 _“Sure. Anything._ ”

Sheriff Stilinski shook his head. Did the boy have no sense of self-protection? Still, this was the reaction he’d been counting on. “I need you to come to Greenfield Parkway, just east of the resurfacing, and drive Allison home.”

 _“Allison!_ ” It sounded like Scott jumped to his feet. “ _Is she okay?”_

“She’s a little shaky. Bad enough that I don’t think she should be driving.”

 _“Alright. I’ll be right there._ ”

“Make sure you use the light on your bike,” the sheriff cautioned. “I don’t want you getting hit because some driver couldn’t see you.”

 _“I’ll be really careful, Sheriff. Promise._ ”

The sheriff didn’t completely believe Scott, but it was the best he could do. He went back to Allison, and told her Scott was on his way. She looked stupidly reassured by that—more than the sheriff thought she should anyway (and he'd known Scott longer)—but they were in love and that topped reality. He'd felt the same way about Claudia before... Even after, after everything, he'd never stopped loving her.

He sighed away the memories, and pushed down the regrets. At least the rain had stopped.

He called the front desk at the station and ordered Rita to find an ambulance to be on standby.

" _You think someone's gonna get hurt?_ " He knew Rita assumed it was a meth lab they were going after, because that's what he’d wanted her to assume. He said nothing to break that assumption.

Things were in hand for the operation. He needed to get over there. He needed to be on-site to supervise his people. Let them know that Kate Argent would likely see them as a supernatural threat and would have no hesitation about killing them. As long as Scott didn’t take too long getting here, he’d have plenty of time to be at the Preserve before his people, make sure they suited up like he told them to.

Behind him, he heard Allison muttering. "Oh, God." She seemed back on the verge of another breakdown.

He immediately stuck his head in her window. "Hey, hey, don't worry. We’re going to get Derek out of there," he said hurriedly. "And we’re going to make sure your aunt gets the help she needs.”

Allison clutched at his arm. “You’ll be careful, right?”

“We’re going to be plenty careful.” He patted her hand in reassurance. “All you need to do is to let Scott take you home. I’ll be by to take your statement tomorrow.” She was shaking her head before he was halfway finished. “What?”

“I can’t go home,” Allison said, panicking. “They won’t understand. They’ll never forgive me for turning her in.”

The sheriff stopped. He didn’t know much about the Argent family. He knew Kate was Chris’ sister, not Victoria’s. He knew they travelled the country demonstrating and selling weapons and protective gear. He knew they hadn’t joined any local organization other than the PTA. He knew Scott was completely infatuated with Allison, and Stiles had forgiven her for stealing his "bro time". He didn’t know if they were the type to hush up family scandals. Given that uncertainty, he couldn’t just blithely tell Allison it would be okay.

He bent back down. “You don’t have to tell them,” he said. “I’m not writing a ticket. No one has to know I stopped you. It’ll be an anonymous tip.”

"You'd do that?" She sounded surprised.

He gave her a smile. "Treat you like a confidential informant? Well, that's what you are, right?"

Her smile this time had dimples, so he figured the crisis had been averted. Before it could come again, he heard the uneven growl of a very familiar engine. He stood up with a growl of his own.

The Jeep had barely stopped moving before Scott jumped out. "Allison!" She was only moments slower. "Scott!" The sheriff sidestepped to avoid being run over. They held each other and peered into each other’s eyes like they were Romeo and Juliet. The sheriff turned to give them some privacy and was reminded that there was someone else at this party.

“Hey, Dad. Dad, daddy-o. What’s up?”

"Why are you here?" Stalinski asked, even though he knew it was a stupid question.

"I was just chillin' with my bro when he got your call," Stiles said. "I couldn't let him venture into the dark and dangerous night alone!"

"You were curious," the sheriff translated.

"I would never delve into police business.” Stiles made a hurt face. The sheriff raised his eyebrow. Stiles slumped. “Again. I wouldn't do it again. At least, not without permission."

Stilinski knew his kid well enough to let it go: a friend in need and a chance to know more? Of course Stiles was going to come, it would’ve been like dangling a feather before a cat, but overall he was a good kid despite the bumps.

For the first time, the sheriff wondered if some of the craziness that had invaded his town and surrounded his son wasn’t a run-off from Kate and her belief in werewolves. If the woman honestly believed Derek Hale was the Wolfman, maybe she thought Stiles was mini-Dracula? He certainly spent enough time out of the house at night.

“When we're done here you're going straight home.”

“Why? What’s up?” Stiles asked, completely ignoring the order. “Is Allison okay?”

“Allison is fine.” Stilinski answered but he could see his son's next question (and the next) already forming. He needed to give Stiles—give all of them—something. He shifted to include the pair entwined behind him. "Listen up. All of you.” They all turned towards him. “I need you all to stay quiet about this little… Meeting here.”

Allison tensed, and Scott’s “Sure thing, Sheriff” overlapped with Stiles’ “What did you do?”

The sheriff assumed an embarrassed pose. “I broke regulations,” he said, looking down and away. “I didn’t write Allison a ticket—”Absolutely true. “And I’m not going to file a report about this stop—” Also true. “ _Officially_ ,” he said with emphasis, “this stop never happened.”

“Dad—” Stiles took a step forward, in shock or upset, the sheriff couldn’t tell. He held up a hand to stop whatever Stiles had been going to say.

“If anybody finds out… Well, they could accuse me of incompetence—” All three teenagers protested. It was kind of nice. “Or favoritism. The first would be false. The second…” He huffed out a breath, put his hands on hips. “So I need you three to not say a word to this to anyone.”

He looked at them in turn. Allison looked relieved and grateful—neither of which was suspicious in the circumstances. Scott looked earnest and upright. “Honestly, who else would I tell?” he asked, which was a good point. As usual, it was Stiles who made him worry. Stiles, who gave him a narrow-eyed look filled with suspicion.

“Stiles?” he asked gently, and Stiles jumped as if startled from thought. His face cleared, and he nodded too fast and too long. “Yeah. Right. No worries. We’re all… Mum. Secrets to the grave, etcetera.”

It was the kind of babble that gave the sheriff his own suspicions about what his son was planning, but he couldn’t ask him about it without getting some very penetrating questions back. Besides, he needed to get them out of here before Tara checked in.

He shuffled Scott and Allison back to her car, made sure they used their seatbelts and waved them away.

“What’s going on, Pop?” Stiles was still, watching him with far too more intelligence than the sheriff wanted to see right now.

“Nothing.” Denial wouldn’t work. It _never_ worked, but he always hoped. He sighed; better to direct the fall-out than to be completely blindsided later. He waited until Stiles gave him an exasperated look.

“Fine. Doing all the paperwork would make me late for an operation we have planned for tonight.”

Stiles perked up. “An operation? Like SWAT stuff? What’s the target? Is it dangerous?” With the final question, Stiles’ excitement drained and worry took its place.

“It’s just rumors,” the sheriff said. “Some kind of group operating in the woods.”

“Illegal stuff? You mean like a _meth_ _lab_?” Stiles’ voice reached the supersonic register. “Those things _explode!_ ”

“Yes they do,” the sheriff agreed. He draped his arm over Stiles’ shoulders and steered his son back to the jeep. “Which is why I’m going to be very careful, and you’re going to go back home so that I don’t have anything more to worry about.”

“I’ve done some research on how to neutralize—”

“So has Deputy Graeme. And Deputy Lassiter. Cordova even has that BA in chemistry. We’re not unprepared for this.” All true. It wouldn’t be the first time drug operations had been set up in Beacon County. It was an easy drive into the city for supplies and marketing, plus criminals too often thought ‘rural’ meant unobservant or corrupt. Sheriff Stilinski hated those stereotypes.

“Okay. Anything else I can do then?” Stiles asked.

“You can _go home._ ” The sheriff opened the driver-side door. He stood and waited for Stiles to climb in. he closed the door carefully, giving it that small lift it needed to latch properly. “Go home,” he repeated. “Try not to worry. I’ll call you when it’s over.” He stared at his son until Stiles gave a little nod. He stepped away as Stiles started the jeep and drove off.

He gave it thirty minutes before his son talked himself out of obedience.

He notified Deputy Graeme to be on the lookout for Stiles’ jeep and to make the other deputies aware of it. They’d all been pretty good at not shooting his son at crime scenes. Hopefully, that lucky streak would last one more night.

.o0o.

 


	2. The World is Always Upside-Down Somewhere

It was Graeme who found the footsteps that led to the hidden entrance a hundred yards from the Hale house. It was a rusted-looking grate that could’ve been a storm-water outflow pipe, but there was no water and the rust was a total lie. When the Sheriff checked the hinges closely, the red was painted on and they were shiny with oil.

Someone was maintaining this entrance.

Sheriff Stilinski signaled Tara to take most of the deputies back to the house, where there were a lot more exits, and plug any holes there. That left Haigh, Astiago and Lassiter to come with him down the narrow tunnel. It was tight for all of them. Even Lassiter—the youngest on the force and nick-named Lassie—but Haigh, who was nearly Hulk-sized, had to bend almost double. It was a good thing the deputy wasn’t claustrophobic.

They moved up the tunnel, two moving while the other two covered, and Stilinski was glad Graeme had thought to bring their night-vision equipment. Even though it was going to be useless once they were completely cut off from the moonlight. One more corner and then they’d have to bring out the flashlights and give themselves away.

Except, when the sheriff peered around the corner, there were electric lights hanging on the wall casting a dim glow on the featureless tunnel. They were low-wattage, energy-efficient bulbs, but they were on. Meaning something down here needed them.

He indicated that he and Astiago would move to the next bend, while Haigh and Lassiter provided the cover. He tried to be quiet, but the tunnel was metal and every crunch and scrape seemed to echo. They reached the corner. Astiago, with her younger knees, crouched and peeked around low while the sheriff looked high. It was empty. Or empty of people, at least. There were plastic crates and a coil of electrical wire standing on one side. Across from them was a solid metal door on rollers.

No way were they getting through that without the whole tunnel hearing them.

He waved the other two deputies up. He ordered Lassiter and Astiago to take positions on either side of the door. Haigh silently argued to let him take point, but Sheriff Stilinski shook his head. Haigh was good, but the sheriff was still the best shot in the department. Plus they’d need Haigh's muscles to get that door open fast.

Unhappy, Haigh nodded and moved to the door, careful not to block anyone’s shot in case the door opened before they were ready.

Watching them get into position, the sheriff was doubly glad he’d insisted the county pay for some SWAT training for his people. It had only been two days of intense instruction, but it was already paying off with the way they were moving—calm and professional . He caught their eyes in turn, making sure the three of them were ready for the next action. Then, behind the door, something _roared_.

They all jumped, even him.

The sound went on—a grinding howl of pain and rage and despair. It was barely human, and it didn’t stop.

Astiago looked at him, hands flexing on her weapon. Whoever was behind the door was probably occupied doing whatever it was that caused Hale to make that sound (the sheriff couldn`t call it a scream). They wouldn’t get a better chance.

The sheriff nodded at Haigh. Haigh nodded back, braced his hands on the door and _pushed._

The door slid easily on well-oiled rollers.

“Sheriff’s Office!” Stilinski shouted over the bang of the door. “Put your hands up and come out.”

It was exactly as Allison had described: a long room carved from the rock, dimly lit but for the spotlight on Derek Hale who hung from metal bars at the far end. 

Except it didn’t look like Hale, the sheriff registered as he swept his gaze over the room looking for threats. There was too much hair on the side of his face, and not enough above the eyes.

He put the observation aside when he saw a bulky figure holding a cylindrical object that glinted in the room’s low light. Either a rifle or a shotgun, the sheriff automatically assessed. “Lower your weapon,” he ordered as he sighted along his own.

“Put it down,” said a female voice from inside the room.

For a moment, it looked like the guy would obey her—the man’s arms lowered a fraction. The sheriff didn’t relax. It was a wise decision because the man jerked his arms, loading a round into the shotgun and lifting it at the same time.

Stilinski had plenty of time—combat time, not real time—to aim, and his shot was perfect. The man stood for a moment more, arms falling, stunned look on his face, before blood gurgled from his mouth and he fell.

“I’m unarmed,” the female called out. That was probably Kate Argent but he couldn’t be sure. Despite his investigations, he’d never actually met the woman.

Lassiter and Astiago crouched low in the doorway, searching the corners. Haigh looked ready to storm in. Stilinski shook his head at the deputy. “Is there anyone else in there with you?” he asked.

There was a snort. “Well, I’m the only _human_ in here.” Did he trust her? Absolutely not.

“Move into the light,” he ordered. “Link your hands over your head.”

A woman moved into the light in front of Derek—a completely normal looking Derek with all his hair in the right places. She was easily recognizable from the pictures he had of her. They were ten years out of date, so this Kate Argent was just a little older, a little harder, a lot more cocky. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had a lot of weapons hidden on her person.

He shifted his weight, preparing for the shot. “On your knees,” he said. “Keep your hands on your head.”

For an instant, her expression showed outrage and anger. Then it was gone like it had never been. Instead, she put on smug grin as if this whole situation was a joke. With a suggestive twist of her hips, she dropped gracefully to her knees.

He gestured for Haigh to go in first since the deputy was right by the door. Haigh slid in, carefully keeping low so as to not block the sheriff’s shot. He kept his weapon out and swept the room for hostiles. “Clear,” Haigh announced.

Stilinski nodded at Lassiter. He too ducked under the sheriff’s line-of-sight, but he went to the downed man. A quick check for a pulse, a short shake of the head. The young deputy pulled out his handcuffs and shifted over to their suspect.

Sheriff Stilinski relaxed his stance. “Watch the tunnel,” he said to Astiago as he entered the room, and the deputy turned both her gaze and her weapon outward.

The room was done in Nazi-torture-chamber chic, complete with blood on the floor and a prison cell at the far end of the room. Stilinski could see the ancient cables that ran to that cage. They’d stripped the wires at the end and wrapped them around the metal bars. The electricity was still on, and there was the occasional flash of a spark jumping from the cheap cables to the bars. Bars to which Hale, shirtless and bare-footed, was attached by heavy steel chains.

The man had his teeth clenched so tight the sheriff was surprised he wasn’t breathing enamel dust. Every muscle in his upper body—and there were a lot of them—stood out as Hale worked to contain the pain.

Lassiter found the electrical control box and turned off the current running to the cell. Hale’s body didn’t relax right away, but twitched and jerked as if working out the extra electricity. It was distracting, but the sheriff forced his gaze to remain on Kate Argent.

In the distance, there was a ‘pop’, followed by two more. Keeping his eyes forward, Stilinski opened up his radio. “Graeme, we’re secure down here. You?” A pause. A too-long pause. He started to press the button again when Tara responded, “One hostile down. One sprained ankle on our side,” she reported. “And Newman found your son’s jeep. Just like you said we would.”

If he hadn’t been keeping such a close eye on their suspect Sheriff Stilinski would’ve missed the look of shocked rage that crossed her face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by disdainful boredom, but the sheriff _had_ seen it and he wondered what it meant.

She saw him looking and sneered. “Do you _even_ know what your son’s up to?” she asked in a mocking tone. “Do you know who, or rather _what_ , he’s hanging out with?”

He ignored her. “Katherine Argent, you are under arrest on suspicion of kidnapping, torture—”

“Oh, come _on!”_ She jerked her chin towards Hale hanging from the chains. “Does he look hurt to you?”

The sheriff ignored that, too. “—unlawful restraint, conspiracy to commit arson, and conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Murder?” she sneered. “They have to be human for it to be murder and you saw him, didn’t you, Sheriff? That wasn’t human. Besides, he’s still alive.”

He continued with the Miranda warning, talking over all her protests and threats. He kept his weapon on her while Lassiter put her in handcuffs and Haigh searched her for weapons. At first, Haigh was relatively polite about it, but after he found a garroting wire threaded through her belt loops he was a lot more thorough. Small knives, a small gun, tiny needles that might or might not be coated with something—the stack was impressive.

By the time they were through, Tara Graeme stood at the entrance to the room with a couple EMTs. They squeezed by her to check on the body. “Everything’s tidy upstairs,” she reported.

The sheriff nodded his acknowledgement. “Did you call the medical examiner?”

“Yup,” she answered. “Willard’s on his way. Should be thirty minutes.”

Thirty minutes… It was too long to hold the scene, especially as Hale was still chained to the bars. “Right. Haigh, did you find a key for the chains?” The deputy had to think about it, but he eventually remembered finding a key. He dug it out of the pile of weapons and handed it over.

“You, Graeme and Lassiter. Take Ms. Argent to the station and put her in a cell,” the sheriff ordered. “She gets her phone call, a cup of water and that’s it. She asks for anything else, call me first.” Haigh nodded.

“Three deputies? My, you are flattering to my ego.” She sneered at Haigh. “Or maybe all those muscles are just for show. “ Haigh jerked her up harder than he needed to. She laughed outright.

Stilinski noted it—he’d talk to Haigh about his temper later. “Graeme, when you get to the station, contact State. We’ve discharged our weapons so they need to investigate.”

“Got it,” she said.

“Astiago!” he called and his newest deputy poked her head into the doorway. “You got a cell phone, right?”

Astiago looked confused. “Uh, yeah. Of course.”

“Good,” he nodded. “You’re going to film us messing with the crime scene.” The deputy’s face lightened and she put away her weapon. He waved at the equipment and wires hooked up to Hale. “Document this while I look for a light switch.”

“It’s on the wall by the door,” Hale said and nearly made the sheriff jump. Aside from the screaming earlier, the man hadn’t made a sound.

Stilinski nodded. “Two minutes and we’ll have you out of there.”

“I’ve lasted this long.” Hale’s voice was always lighter and softer than the sheriff expected. The man closed his eyes and leaned his head back, and Stilinski was once again reminded at just how _young_ Hale was. Twenty-four seemed old when you were in the middle of it, but it really, really wasn’t.

After that, it was a blur of activity. Astiago carefully documented the sheriff removing the wires attached to Hale, and unlocking the chains. She documented the EMTs checking him over for injuries. “They just used the wire,” Hale said in explanation when they found none.

“Less evidence that way,” one of the med techs commented sagely.

The sheriff still insisted Hale go to the hospital. It wouldn’t hurt for him to get a thorough physical, and after an event like this, even institutional TLC had to be better than the nobody Hale had waiting for him.

Hale growled when he was shown the gurney waiting in the tunnel, but both the EMTs and the sheriff insisted, so he rolled himself onto it, lying stiff and tense.

“We won’t restrain you until we get to the rough parts, okay?” said the same med tech reassuringly. Hale glowered at him. The EMT just gave him a pat, and the sheriff wondered if they guy was really that oblivious to Hale’s hostility, or if he just didn’t care.

It occurred to him to be worried that Hale would attack the ambulance personnel in order to be free. Stilinski had seen Hale’s face when they’d entered the room. He remembered the teeth—the teeth of a predator. If Hale was a legitimate threat—and he could very well be—then the sheriff should restrain him and take him to the hospital himself.

Then he remembered his son, taunting Hale in the cruiser after finding his Laura Hale’s mutilated body; his son at the station, staring at Hale across the bullpen. Hale hadn’t attacked Stiles either time. He’d been angry, but not vicious. Not an animal.

As the gurney trundled up the tunnel, Dr. Mack Willard came down it. Mack started asking questions before he’d even reached the sheriff, and Stilinski filed his worry away.

Beside the ME was his son, Willy Junior, who doubled as the county’s forensics department. He mostly collected whatever he thought could be relevant and sent it to the state lab for analysis, but Willy took the job seriously. Out of his own pocket he bought paper hats and booties like the ones on TV, and then he made everyone wear them. It was kind of endearing. And he did do a pretty good job…

In the middle of Mack’s interrogation, Tara radioed in. They’d found Stiles and they were bringing him to the station (because telling him to go home was a waste of breath) and Ms. Argent had asked for her phone call.

.o0o.

 


	3. False Notes Ring as True to the Tone Deaf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison discovers that her family is weird (and rather scary), and work place gossip may change the future.
> 
> (Once again, thanks go to my betas alecto_nyx and 0ok4m1.)

Allison sat on her bed, pillow clutched to her chest.

She’d had a stuffed cheetah once, when she was little. She’d called it Uhura after the character on Star Trek, because Lt. Uhura had been beautiful and fierce just like a cheetah. For years, Allison told it all her secrets and dreams. It had gotten lost in one of their moves, and she’d felt lost without her stuffed cheetah, unbalanced and somehow empty. It was kind of like how she was feeling now.

She’d shooed Scott away from her window, not wanting her parents to know they’d been together, but now she regretted doing it. He’d come when she’d needed him, even though they weren’t together anymore. And he’d done his best to cheer her up, even though he didn’t know the full extent of what she’d needed distracting _from._ Now, without his soulful eyes and lopsided smile, she had nothing to take her away from her morbid thoughts.

Had they caught Kate? Would Sheriff Stilinski shoot Kate if she resisted arrest? Was the sheriff okay? Had she done the right thing? Did her parents know what Kate had done? Did they approve? What was she supposed to say to them?

She’d managed to avoid them coming in—a quick, shouted greeting before racing up the stairs. A long, hot shower to cover another bout of crying, and then she’d hid in her room “doing homework.”

She thought of texting Jackson, but it was late and it might send the wrong signal. She liked him, sure, but she didn’t want him as her boyfriend, and confiding something like this was definitely stepping into boyfriend territory.

Lydia, or even Stiles, would maybe make good confidantes for something other than this, but torture wasn’t Lydia’s world. And Stiles was… curious. He’d ask her question after question, not realizing how rude it was, until she told him everything. And then he’d ask more questions. And his father was the sheriff; he’d put it together.

 _“Go to school. Do your homework. Go to the formal on Friday night. Be a normal teenage girl who doesn’t know anything._ ”

Kate had made it sound so easy, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. She didn’t feel normal anymore, because normal didn’t— _couldn’t_ —include torture.

When her friends found out about Kate, would it change how they looked at her?

Allison flopped back onto her bed and stared at the ceiling.

She heard the phone ringing. They had multiple handsets spread around the house and garage, but the only one upstairs was in the hall.

Allison’s hands tightened around the pillow. It could be anyone. Calling about anything. A telemarketer. She knew it wasn’t.

“Oh God,” she muttered, heart suddenly racing and sweat breaking out all over her body. She kind of wanted to jump out the window and run because she’d been an idiot: of course Kate would figure out who turned her in. Who else could’ve done it, after all? And Kate would tell her parents, and her parents would…

She took a deep breath. The sheriff had promised to keep her name out of it. Kate might guess, but without the sheriff backing it up, that’s all it was: a guess. She just had to act confused.

_“… Be a normal teenage girl who doesn’t know anything.”_

When the knock on her door came, she took a moment to prepare herself. “Come in.”

Her dad opened the door a little. “That was your aunt on the phone. She’s been arrested. She wanted me to warn you.”

Allison sat up. “She… What? _Why_?”

“I was hoping you could explain.” He mildly as he came into her room fully. “Why would Kate feel the need to warn you that she’d been arrested? ‘Not inform you,’ not ‘give you heads up’, but warn. As if you could be next.”

Allison stared at her pillow. It was pilling. She plucked at the little fiber balls. Her mind raced: what had Kate said? How should she react? Was this a trick? Did she look guilty? Should she stick with the ‘upset about Scott’ story?

“Does it have something to do with why you holed yourself in your room all night?” His voice was calm, reasonable, and implacable. He wasn’t leaving without an answer.

Her mind lit up with a brilliant strategy: _Nobody ever defended anything successfully, there is only attack and attack and attack some more._ (Thank you, General Patton and Mr. Huardes for assigning the reading.)

She glared at her father in (completely not faked) anger. “She showed me what you’ve been hiding from me.” Her father looked puzzled. “ _Werewolves_ , Dad.”

One word and her father was on the defensive. 

He ground his teeth, turning a small, angry circle in her room. “Son of a…” he muttered. “She had no right!”

“What about _my_ rights?” Allison asked ( _attack and attack and attack some more)_. “She said you’re hunters, all of you. You, Mom, your parents, _your_ _grandparents._ But not me. I’m too ‘delicate’ to be a hunter.”

He stopped pacing. His face changed from angry to comforting. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me? Am I ‘too weak’?”

“No. Honey, no,” Dad tried to reassure her, but her mother’s voice overrode his.

“We were going to tell you when it was appropriate.” Mom stood in the door like a soldier, shoulders back, spine straight, and her clinical tone shut down the conversation. There would be no more questions about why Alison was upset.

Allison hid her relieved smile in the pillow. Instead, she squealed as if exasperated, knowing exactly how her mother would respond.

“That’s enough.” Mom stepped forward and pulled the pillow down. “Your aunt has been arrested, and we need to know what for.”

“What did she show you as proof,” her father asked.

The memory swamped Allison, taking away any lingering desire to shout in triumph. The dark room: smelling of dirt and hot wire. The sound: electrical hum and chains clinking against metal. Kate’s laugh. Derek’s roar…

“Derek Hale,” she whispered. “She had Derek Hale chained up in the basement of his old house.”

Dad turned away, swearing, before she’d even finished. “That _idiot_! I warned her—“

“Chris!” her mother barked and Dad stopped. He still seethed, but he was quiet. Only then, did her mother turn back to her. “What else?”

“She ran electricity to him and he… He changed. His eyes and… Teeth,” Allison stumbled a bit. His teeth had been huge.

 _“These are canines, also known as fangs. Made for the tearing and rending of flesh.”_ Allison didn’t have to fake being scared and confused. What if she’d made the wrong choice? What if Derek really was a killer? 

“Dear Lord,” her mother muttered to herself. “That is _not_ the way to show someone.”

But, she argued with herself for the billionth time, if werewolves were the mindless predators that Kate said they were, why wasn’t the world full of them? Why weren’t humans being attacked _all the time_?

It was a good argument, it made sense, and it still didn’t make her feel any better about turning Kate in.

“I’ve never liked your sister, you know that,” Allison heard her mother say to Dad. “But I never before thought her stupid.”

“She’s always been reckless,” Dad replied mildly.

“Your father certainly made no attempt to control her.” Her mother’s voice was cold and condemning. Her father didn’t bother defending Gerard, and Allison knew it was because her dad didn’t like his father either. Grandpa Argent— Gerard—was never invited to visit, never encouraged to call. He dropped by occasionally, but the visits were short and uncomfortable.

Was it because Gerard was like Kate inside?

Allison could easily picture her paternal grandfather tying up people and putting them in his basement to beat up later. In fact, maybe that’s why Kate did it. According to Dad, Kate had always been closer to Gerard. Kate often defended Gerard to her parents, and she was usually with him on his rare visits.

“It makes no difference now.” Her mother’s voice was sharp. It pulled Allison’s attention out of her thoughts and back into the room. “She needs a lawyer.”

“We have Spence—“

“Yes,” Mom interrupted him. “I’ll phone Spencer. You go to the station. See if you can’t get some information from the sheriff.”

“I’ll try, but don’t count on it,” her father said with a sigh. “Stilinski is remarkably tight-lipped about his active cases.”

“Hmmm,” her mom growled. “It makes me wonder about his son’s parentage.”

Allison sat up. “Stiles is a nice guy.”

“That may be,” her mother conceded. “But, unlike his father, he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.” Mom gave her head a shake. “No matter. We have to have more information if we’re to know how to proceed. Chris…”

“On my way,” Dad said. He gave Mom’s shoulder an affectionate pat. Her mother followed him out a brief moment later and Allison heard her on the phone calling the lawyer. Their conversation was brief, as were most conversations with her mother.

When it was done, her mother’s heel’s clicked on the hardwood floor. She strode into Allison’s room and pinned her with a hard look. “What did you think of your aunts activities?”

“You mean…” Allison didn’t actually want to discuss what Kate had been doing, not with her mother.

“Torturing Derek Hale, yes,” her mom confirmed briskly. “Did you agree with it?”

Allison’s heart started thundering in her chest again. She swallowed. “She didn’t ask him any questions.”

One of her mother’s eyebrows went up. “Explain.”

“Well…” Allison stopped, took a breath. “She said she wanted to know who the second beta was. That Derek knew who—”

“Of course he does,” her mother sneered lightly. “Werewolves can _smell_ each other.”

“Well, Kate never asked him. I think… I think she just liked having him as her prisoner, making him shift. It was like she was playing.” Allison finished.

“Probably,” her mother casually agreed. “Werewolves can withstand a remarkable amount of pain. If she’d been serious about interrogating Derek, she would’ve used Wolfsbane. Done correctly, it acts like sodium pentothal. Although, your aunt may lack the subtlety to use it effectively.” Allison stared, horrified. Her mother—who made totally kick-ass cookies—was talking about poisoning people as casually as she handed out her cookies. It was nightmarish.

An even worse thought occurred to Allison: how would her mother know that fact, if she hadn’t tortured werewolves too. Just her knowing that meant her mother _had_ poisoned people. People who were actually werewolves, but still… Sentient beings with families and lives. Mom was like Kate, but less flashy. Allison wanted to throw up.

Allison pushed her stomach back down out of her throat. “So she was doing it for fun?” Her voice barely shook.

Her mother hummed in confirmation. “All she did was expose herself and us. If she wasn’t her father’s daughter, there would be punishment for that. Fairly severe punishment.”

Allison swallowed. If her mother ever found out that she was the one to turn Kate in, it sounded like exile would be the most pleasant option given her. She needed to be away from here, from this house. She could stay with Lydia—or she would, once Lydia was back in town. Two days—too long. Who else?

“You’re friends with Stiles.”

“I’m friends with Scott,” Allison corrected.

“And he’s friends with Stiles,” Victoria sniffed disdainfully. “Everyone knows the boy pokes his nose into the sheriff’s business. If you phone him for information, it won’t be suspicious.” It wasn’t a request

“Okay,” Allison agreed without enthusiasm. Stiles was a nice enough guy, but he wouldn’t stop asking questions once something caught his attention. If she called him after being stopped by his dad, and then her asking him about what his dad was up to… That sounded like something that would catch Stiles’ attention.

Both her mother’s eyebrows went up. “Now, Allison,” she said. “Like I told your father, we need information. As much of it as we can get.”

“Right.” She nodded unevenly. She picked up her phone, stared at it. “I don’t have his number,” she lied.

“Well, then, call Scott. Get it from him,” her mother said with icy precision. “And ask him if Stiles has let anything slip. From everything I’ve heard, I doubt they have secrets from each other. Let me know what you find out.” With that, her mother turned and strode from the room. Allison watched her go. Then she looked back down at her phone, and tried typing out the message.

She couldn’t do it. Her hands were trembling too much.

.o0o.

 

At the hospital across town, a nurse arrived for her shift in the long-term care facility. She didn’t mind working nights; it let her spend more time with her patients. Well, _one_ patient, really. One _wonderful_ patient.

Peter Hale was intelligent, powerful, and attractive despite the burns. When he was fully healed, he was going to share his gift with her, and they would rule Beacon Hills. From the shadows, unfortunately, but better a shadow queen than 16-hour shifts of shit and bed sores.

Not much longer, he’d said. Only a couple more people to take care of.

Anticipation made her hum as she entered the locker room. It kept her mostly oblivious of the usual hospital gossip—doctors and nurses and their standard love affairs. Then one name caught her ear…

“…Kate Agent was torturing him. Can you believe it? ”

“I’ve bumped Kate Argent at the gas station once,” the second nurse replied. “If she could do laser eyes, I’d be dead.”

“I heard the sheriff shot her,” Nurse #3 said breathlessly.

“Nuh-uh. Deputy Trejo said she was at the station, waiting for a lawyer.”

The second nurse laughed. “Oh my lord! I wish I could’ve seen her face when Stilinski fingerprinted her.” There was more, but Jennifer tuned it out.

Kate Argent was under arrest. They were going to put her in jail, and Peter would never be able to get to her there. He would never be able to complete his mission, never finish healing. He would never raise her up to be who she was supposed to be.

She had to tell him right away. He’d know what to do.

.o0o.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nobody ever defended anything successfully, there is only attack and attack and attack some more." - General George S. Patton. After all, Allison IS studying WWII.


	4. Force of Law Is a Habit of Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris follows orders but doesn't enjoy it, the sheriff asks questions and enjoys himself just fine, and Peter decides to crash the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I have a soft-spot for Chris Argent even tho he can be a specie-ist (specist?) dumb-ass. His brain must be a wonderfully twisty place to balance his Code with stone-cold killing.

Despite the impression he gave, Chris hated police stations. Entering one felt too much like being trapped, and he always had the irrational fear an officer was going to try to handcuff him.

Part of his fear was caused by the understanding that much of what he did was outside the law. Most cops who saw hunters taking care of rogue werewolves wouldn’t think of it as defense but as murder, since werewolves didn’t look evil when they hid their fangs and claws. They owned homes, had neighbors, owned businesses, and had outward ties to the community. For an average cop, that gave them the same rights as humans. He didn’t want to try explaining to a cop that the new father he had just bisected wasn’t human. That way lay jail cells or padded rooms, and Chris had no desire to experience either.

Of course, some cops were completely on board with killing werewolves. Gerard used those kinds of officers on his hunts whenever he could. They’d join in the hunt and happily cover up the execution. Unfortunately, those cops were often the same cops who’d kill people of color with the same enthusiasm and self-righteousness. Chris didn’t like using them. He judged people on their actions. It was part of the Code, part of what kept them on the side of the righteous. He didn’t give two goddamns about the color of their skin. Hunters protected humans— _all humans—_ from supernatural monsters, just like the police were supposed to protect humans from each other regardless of skin color. Victoria called him naïve. Maybe he was.

He still didn’t like going into police stations.

The Beacon County Sheriff’s Office was a low, brick building, maybe 30-years-old and showing its age. There was a free-standing metal detector on the outside door, and the front desk was in the open reception area, not behind glass. He already had his carry permit out before walking through it.

He’d actually talked to the sheriff about installing additional security for the reception area, but Stilinski had only sighed. Apparently, he’d been requesting a refit for nearly five years, but the county and the town were looking at constructing a whole new building and so wouldn’t put out the money to do anything to the old one. “It’ll take a disaster,” is what Stilinski had said and he’d looked worried. 

Chris understood: a disaster in this instance meant cops being killed.

He walked over to the desk. Instead of the usual female officer, there was a male deputy on duty. Young, white and skinny, he had on glasses and was scribbling furiously on a yellow, legal notepad. Chris didn’t need to see his name tag (Lassiter) to know that they’d never met, which could make it harder to get into the back area. Small towns like Beacon Hills were always more willing to bend the rules for a familiar face.

“Hiya,” Chris said, keeping his smile low-key and casual. The deputy barely looked up. “I’m Chris Argent,” he said mildly.

Lassiter’s head jerked up and he stared at Chris. “Argent?” He pulled the legal pad down, out of sight, trying to be casual about it. Chris realized the kid had been writing up his report on Kate’s arrest.

“You have my sister in holding.” Chris could almost hear the kid wondering if he’d known what Kate was up to. The look in Lassiter’s eyes already had him half-condemned as a monster. He made his smile rueful. “I’d like to see her.”

“Uh right. Umm,” Lassiter hummed apologetically.

Chris didn’t let himself sigh. “Is the sheriff here?” he asked instead. “You can ask him if it’s okay.”

“Sheriff Stilinski is still on scene,” Lassiter answered. “But Deputy Graeme… Tara’ll know the protocol.” Lassiter picked up the phone. Then he looked at Chris as if waiting for him to move away from the desk to give him some privacy. Chris smiled acceptance even as he backed away to let the kid—Chris refused to consider him a real adult—contact his supervisor.

Chris looked at the information boards (useless), picked up a magazine (boring), and paced (frustrating, because the space was too small). He resisted staring at Lassiter knowing it would just make the young deputy nervous and maybe suspicious. Thankfully, it didn’t take long before a short, African-American woman, wearing a senior deputy’s uniform and a no-nonsense attitude came out from the back.

This one, Chris _did_ know. His hopes went up. He stepped forward, a more honest smile in place and his hand out to shake. “Deputy Graeme, we’ve met—“

“I remember you,” she interrupted. “Weapons demonstration couple months back. You argued for open carry.” Her tone was polite rather than friendly. “Are you carrying right now, Mr. Argent?

Chris dropped his hand and his smile “I am. I have my permit, of course.”

“Of course you do.” Her tone was dry. “What can I do for you, Mr. Argent?”

“I’d like to speak to my sister. Or failing that, Sheriff Stilinski.” Deputy Graeme lifted an eyebrow. Chris softened his request. “When he gets here, of course.” Graeme looked at Lassiter who gave a squirmy little shrug in apology. It reminded Chris of some scuttle-butt he’d heard about Deputy Graeme having been a middle school teacher before becoming a cop. His hopes for getting any information out of the police fell.

She turned back to Chris and her expression was professionally polite. “The sheriff has not authorized the release of any information regarding this case,” Graeme stated. “As you are not your sister’s lawyer, we are under no obligation to allow you to speak to the suspect or to tell you the charges. If you object to these actions, you are more than welcome to wait for the sheriff’s return.”

“How long will he be, do you know? It _is_ rather urgent that I talk to him.”

Her expression didn’t shift. “I don’t set the sheriff’s schedule, nor does he let civilians set his priorities.”

“As a public servant, isn’t it his job to respond to civilian emergencies?” Chris couldn’t help but snark.

“If this _was_ an emergency, then we’d be responding,” she replied, still completely unimpressed with him. “ _Is_ it an emergency?”

Chris was forced to admit that, no, it wasn’t.

“Very good, sir,” she finally smiled at him—a professional quirk of the lips. “If you’d care to have a seat. There’s coffee on the table over there.” She nodded at the far end, away from the door and the desk.

“No thanks,” Chris said. “I’ve had your coffee before.”

She shrugged, gave Lassiter a sharp nod that had the young deputy straightening, and left the room. Chris waited until the door to the back area was fully closed.

“That is one tough woman,” he said with a rueful chuckle.

Lassiter joined him. “Definitely. I mean... She’s really nice off the job,” he hastened to assure Chris. “And she’s taught me a lot.” He cleared his throat. “The sheriff trusts her.”

“I can see why.” Chris smiled, gauging it perfectly so that Lassiter relaxed. “She was on scene with him tonight?” Lassiter tightened back up. Chris changed his expression to rueful amusement. “I think my sister is doomed.”

Deputy Lassiter relaxed, but not enough. Damn, Stilinski had trained his people well.

Chris pulled his cell phone out, and waved it towards the door behind him. “Speaking of tough women, I need to update my wife…”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Lassiter agreed hastily. “If Sheriff Stilinski comes in while you’re outside, I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”

“Thanks, Deputy…” Chris made a show of looking at the guy’s badge. “…Lassiter. I appreciate it.”

.o0o.

 

Sheriff Stilinski was glad to be out of that creepy basement.

It turned out the bars to which Hale had been chained predated the fire. Why would the Hales—upstanding citizens as they had appeared to be—need a room with bars that would make a regular prison look weak? Unless the werewolf thing was true and they needed a cage to prevent bloody rampages during full moons?

He stopped by his patrol car.

God, he hoped the werewolf thing wasn’t true, but there’d been Derek’s face when they’d opened the door. And Dr. Willard had found blood on the floor right where he’d been chained up. Fresh blood, but there’d been no cuts, no damage, not even bruising, on Hale at all.

He scraped a hand through his hair, hoping it would help order his thoughts. It didn't.

He radioed in to the station to let Tara know he was heading back in. If he was going to be confused he might as well be warm. The station might be old and hopelessly outdated, but the central heating system worked just fine.

It was late. He was tired and spooked. It took fierce concentration for him to not let his mind wander from safely driving 5000 pounds of vehicle through the night. Stiles would never forgive him if he crashed, and he’d never forgive himself if he hurt anyone because he was distracted by the idea of _werewolves_ in his county.

A werewolf would explain all the recent “animal" attacks.

Except, as far as the sheriff knew, the first couple attacks pre-dated Hale’s return to Beacon Hills…

Except, he only had Hale's word for when he’d left New York. It was possible he’d arrived months ago and started revenge killing…

Starting with his _sister?_ That didn’t make sense…

Stilinski was halfway to town when he remembered there was another Hale in Beacon County.

Peter Hale had been badly burned in the fire, but if Derek Hale could heal whatever damage Kate Argent and her friends had inflicted on him, then perhaps Peter Hale could’ve healed his burns. Being in a vegetative state would be the perfect cover for a revenge-seeking serial killer.

Tomorrow, after they’d processed Argent, he’d head out to the hospital. Check their security tapes and see if Peter Hale was healthier than he let on.

.o0o.

 

Peter Hale wasn’t quite ready. He wasn’t quite healed enough, wasn’t quite strong enough. However, his time had run out. It had to be now, before the law took her away from him.

Perhaps, he should collect Derek from wherever he was stashed in the hospital. Derek had liked him once, had looked up to him even. Surely family bonds would drive Derek to back him up at the station.

Of course, there was the inconvenient fact that Peter _had_ killed Laura in order to become the Alpha.

Maybe it would be better to wait a bit to reel Derek in. Once their revenge was complete, once the Argents were dead, he could devote all his time in convincing his nephew that he'd killed Laura in a fit of burn-enhanced insanity; that he’d been driven by his need to obtain justice for the deaths of their family. It was certainly better than the truth.

If only the boy—Scott—had joined him. Even a pack containing only one pathetic, teen-aged beta was better than nothing. Calling the boy out hadn’t worked, but there were always other options. It might be easier to convince the boy to join him if someone he loved was already in the pack. There was his delicious mother—Peter definitely wouldn’t mind having her as his beta. There was Scott’s obnoxious friend—smart, annoying, but less cautious than the mother.

Either one of those would probably be enough to pull Scott into the fold. If only it weren’t too late to grab one of them tonight.

Ah well. The police would’ve disarmed the bitch, and he could be very resourceful. He’d do this himself, and build his pack afterwards.

.o0o.

 


	5. Courtesy is a Veneer on Everyday Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sheriff talks to Chris, Chris talks to his sister, and Stiles makes labels because it's better than breaking into crime scenes. And Peter can smell his enemies.
> 
> As usual, thanks to my betas alecto_nyx and 0ok4m1. Every comment you made encouraged me to do a better job and be a better writer.

The sheriff entered the station through the side entrance. Ridiculously, he still had to go through reception to get to the operational area. It was yet another issue he needed addressed at the upcoming meeting to discuss the new building. Yes the parking area and entrance were “secured” by a 9-foot chain link fence, but it was also totally exposed. When they transported prisoners to jail or to the courthouse, any nutball with a rifle and a grudge could shoot at them from the roofs of the surrounding buildings. It really was a stupid set up.

As he walked through the open room to the door into the back, he nodded to Lassiter, but ignored the young deputy’s “Oh, hey”. Tara had already called him about Chris Argent hanging around, and he wanted to at least wash his hands before talking to the man.

When he entered the bullpen he was confronted by Stiles sitting at a desk between Tara Graeme and Cort Newman. As usual when his son was hauled in for being where he was not supposed to be, Tara had him doing paperwork. This time, it looked like he was creating labels for storage boxes. As if feeling his father’s glare, Stiles looked up and smiled. It was the standard mix of embarrassment at being caught, contrition for making his father worry, and happiness because he was, once again, in the thick of things.

He really needed to find his boy a better hobby…

Once Stilinksi shed his jacket, washed his hands, and grabbed a cup of coffee, (there was a fresh pot and Stilinski was tempted to give the responsible party a medal) he went back into the bullpen. Haigh was standing in front of their interview-slash-conference room, guarding it as if Ms. Argent was a flight risk. The sheriff approved.

“Has she said anything, made any requests?” he asked.

“Negative,” Haigh responded. “Not since she called her brother.”

“Was she really torturing Derek Hale?” Stiles asked.

He looked at his son. “You know I’m not going to answer that.”

Stiles shrugged, only slightly apologetic. The sheriff looked at his senior deputy. “Who told him?”

“Confidential sources!” Stiles yelled. “They can’t be compelled to answer.”

“That’s to protect _our_ sources,” the sheriff said firmly. “Not yours.”

He looked back at Tara. She mouthed what was easily recognizable as “Gus”.

Stilinski sighed in defeat. Gus Trejo had sung Stiles to sleep more than once back when Claudia was… When she was unable to take care of their son and Stilinski had brought Stiles to the station to give his wife some peace. Stiles still hummed it sometimes. Plus Trejo had trained _him_ when he’d joined the BHSO (and just about every deputy in Beacon Hills had done their ride-alongs in Trejo’s old-fashioned Crown Vic). It gave the sheriff nearly zero authority when reprimanding the man over stuff like this.

Giving it up as a waste of effort, Stilinski turned instead to the conference room. It was a small room with a small table: interrogation room, incident room and waiting area combined. He opened the door and looked at Kate Argent, sitting with her hands clasped in front of her on the table. It was about the only position she could take considering her wrists were cuffed to the table, but she was trying to make it look like it was _her_ choice, like she was in control.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but your brother is here to speak to you.” Stilinski made sure to keep his voice casual, neutral.

“Is my lawyer here?” she asked. Her gaze was flat, unimpressed.

“Not yet.”

“Then I got nothing to say.”

“Alright,” Stilinski nodded, still casual and unconcerned. He leaned back, pulling the door a little closed. Then he leaned in again. “You really think Derek Hale’s a werewolf?”

She gave him a shark-toothed smile, but stayed silent.

Stilinski stepped into the room, frowning as if confused. “The thing is… I can’t tell if it’s something you truly believe, or if you’re setting yourself up for an insanity plea. ”

She sneered.

He ignored it. “You’ve been read your rights, and you’re smart enough to know the room’s being recorded—”

“You mean the camera in the corner’s not just for show?”

He ignored that, too. “Ms. Argent, you have to know that once you’re in an insane asylum—especially as a dangerous offender—it’s very hard to get out.”

Suddenly, Kate leaned forward, sneer removed from her expression. “I am not insane. Derek Hale is an animal,” she hissed. She jerked her head back, taking a breath. When she spoke again, her tone was back to condescending. “Why, you even arrested him for murder once.”

“ _You’ve_ been arrested—”

Kate Argent mouth lifted. “Not for murder.”

“—illegal firearms, disturbing the peace, interfering with an investigation,” he listed. “Arson.”

“Those were all dropped,” she said smugly. “No proof.”

Damn good lawyering and a rich family, Sheriff Stilinski thought, but didn’t say. “Why would anyone think Derek Hale is a werewolf?”

She laughed. “You saw him, Sheriff. You saw the fangs and the claws. You know what he is.”

“If Derek’s a werewolf, does that mean his whole family… Parents, siblings? Uncles and aunts. All of them: werewolves?”

“Probably,” Kate Argent shrugged. She opened her mouth to say more then paused, stilled. Then she laughed even though her eyes said she was furious. “God, you’re good,” she chuckled hollowly. “With your ‘gee, shucks,’ Mayberry routine, but I’m on to you now. I won’t be saying anything more to you without my lawyer.” She sat back and stared at him. “You can go now.”

He stared back a moment. “Can we get you something to drink: a glass of water, cup of coffee?” He already knew she’d turn it down, but she needed to know that she wasn’t in charge here. That he’d leave when _he_ was ready. “And your brother? Wanna speak to him?” She shrugged and the sheriff decided to take it as a yes. He gave her his best John-Wayne-yes-ma’am nod before he left, because he’d be damned before he imitated Andy Griffith.

Once he was outside the room, and the door was shut between them, he let his shoulders slump. She really did believe Derek Hale was a werewolf. She’d killed the Hales because she believed they all turned furry under a full moon. Unfortunately, he’d seen Derek just like she’d said—all hair and fangs and claws. Kate Argent was telling the truth.

If she’d just been crazy, the sheriff would’ve been okay having her sent to a secure psychiatric facility, but she wasn’t insane. That meant what Kate Argent had done—the torture and the murders—were hate crimes, which meant that she deserved to go to prison, or even face the death penalty. Unfortunately, it would be damn tough to convince a jury of that.

Maybe, he thought, if Derek shifted they could get her on cruelty of animals? The sheriff gave an unamused snort.

“Sheriff?” Haigh asked, concerned.

“Dad?” Stiles popped up.

The sheriff pointed first at Stiles then at the chair. He knew his expression was forbidding because Stiles slowly sank back down and grabbed a new sheet of labels without another sound.

“I’m going to be bringing Chris Argent back here,” he said to his deputies. “Clear or cover anything to do with his sister’s arrest.”

He left everyone to it, and walked out to the front desk. Lassiter glanced up as the door opened. He looked excited, opening his mouth to speak before the sheriff’s foot had even touched the floor. It was a far cry from the cool professionalism the young deputy had shown at the Hale house.

“Chris Argent’s outside?”

Lassiter gaped at him. “Uh… How’d you know?”

“Where else would he be?” Lassiter nodded like that made perfect sense. The sheriff smiled. One day Lassiter would realize that Tara kept him informed of everything.

Stilinski waited for Lassiter to buzz open the outside door.

After so many years, Stilinski was used to the procedure. Besides it was more of a courtesy.The lock was a simple magnetic, and the glass was barely reinforced. If someone was determined enough, they could practically walk in anytime, buzzer or no buzzer. The door into the bull pen was a little better, but only just. Beacon Hills might normally be a quiet town, and Beacon County’s serious crime rate was low overall, but Sheriff Stilinski couldn’t depend on it staying that way. Next county meeting was in two weeks, and he intended to be there to push for a decision on the new building for the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Office. Either they were doing it, or they weren’t. He’d had enough of this hemming-and-hawing.

“Mr. Argent?” he called to the lone figure standing near the door.

“I told you before, please call me Chris.” Argent said as he turned, holding out his hand. His expression was open with just a hint of worry, exactly what he should look like given the circumstances. Chris Argent was slim like his sister, but Stilinski was willing to bet there was a fair amount of muscle under the insulated jacket. He could also feel callouses on Argent’s hand from handling a lot of guns.

"Chris," the sheriff said, matching the man’s casual tone. Looking at the man’s perfect expression, the sheriff realized that Chris Argent probably knew about werewolves, too. "Your sister called you?" he prodded.

"Yeah," Argent said. "My wife was calling our lawyer when I left." He said the last a bit defiantly, so the sheriff kept his response bland. It threw Argent a little, but the sheriff kept his smile internal. He let the awkward moment play for a bit before suggesting they go inside. The metal detector beeped. Argent flashed his permit.

Social niceties completed, Sheriff Stilinski led Kate's brother into the work area. Graeme and Newman looked up at them, assessing, weighing. Haigh stood like a statue ignoring everyone. It raised Argent’s discomfort level considerably.

It was perfect.

"Would you like a coffee?" Stilinski waved at the coffee station.

"I made a fresh pot," Stiles interjected perkily.

Argent almost sneered. "That's nice, but I still think I'll pass." Stiles made a face, mocking the rejection.

"We can talk in my office,” he said to Argent while glaring his son back to work.

They said nothing until the door was closed. The sheriff found its distinctive creak comforting. From Argent’s wince, he did not.

"What has she said?" Argent asked the same time the sheriff asked "Is she on medication–"

They paused, each waiting for the other to continue.

The sheriff finally broke the stalemate. "She's said very little."

"Why did you ask about medication?” Argent asked with a frown.

It was the sheriff’s turn to hide behind a casual smile. “Because she’s said very little.”

He motioned Argent to a chair while he chose to perch on the corner of his desk, making himself taller than Chris Argent. “She’s likely to be here for a while, and we need to know if she’s on medication. Or if she has any allergies we should be aware of."

“Why will she be here for a while?” Argent crossed his arms, arguing silently.

The sheriff didn’t look away. “What did she tell you when she called?”

There was silence, and again, they stared at each other, waiting for the other to talk first. This time Chris gave in. “Just that she’d been arrested and needed a lawyer.”

If that was all she’d said during her nearly ten minute phone call, Stilinski would eat his shoes. He gave an apologetic sigh. “You're not her lawyer so I can't tell you much." He waited for Argent's nod of acknowledgement. "Your sister was arrested during the commission of a serious crime. Plus there was a fatality, so she could be charged with felony murder.”

Argent looked away, swearing under his breath and finally uncrossing his arms. Obviously, Kate hadn’t told her brother _that_ part.

“All of this was witnessed by myself and three of my deputies. She’s not going anywhere,” Stilinski concluded gently.

The man gave a quick sigh; it was acceptance and determination both. “She’s not on any medication," Chris said, "but she’s allergic to basil.”

“Basil?” the sheriff repeated, surprised.

Argent nodded. “Give her pesto and she could die.”

The sheriff snorted a laugh. “I’m pretty sure we can avoid pesto.” He picked up a pen and wrote down the information, because he _had_ asked.

“Can I speak to her?”

The question he’d been waiting for…

“You can speak with her,” the sheriff agreed. “But, no offense, you’ll have to leave your weapons and your cell phone with me.”

“Of course,” Chris agreed easily. He stood and removed a 9mm handgun from a waist holster, and the phone from his pocket.

“Anything else?”

Chris looked like he was going to argue his innocence, but one look at the sheriff changed his mind. He removed an ammo cartridge from his pocket, and a large knife—just under the legal length—from his ankle.

“I’ll keep them in here until you come out,” the sheriff assured him, putting them in his desk drawer. He stood to escort Chris to the conference room. “She’s been read her rights,” Stilinski said as he opened the door. “And she assures me that she understands them.”

“Of course I understand them,” Kate Argent sneered from the table.

“If you could convince her to talk to us, explain her side…” The sheriff let his voice trail off, even as Chris shook his head.

“I think we’ll wait for our lawyer,” Chris said dryly.

The sheriff smiled. “I had to try.” He held out his hand. With a wry snort, Argent shook it.

Kate’s voice cut the moment off. “So, have you two got a secret handshake now?” Chris’ smile disappeared as if it had never existed. The sheriff backed out before he got dragged into a family squabble. Sure enough, once the door was closed, Sheriff Stilinski heard indistinct, angry voices.

He went over to Tara. "Equipment's working?"

She leaned over so he could see the program currently running on her computer, recording everything. He’d seen it on a police show and asked around. Chris wasn’t Kate's lawyer and there was no legal expectation of privacy in a police station. Hell, Stilinski had even told her she was being recorded. Who said TV wasn’t educational?

"Let me know if they say anything actionable."

Deputy Graeme nodded, and the sheriff left her to it. DA Whitmore would be here in less than an hour, and he hadn't even started on the paperwork. He filled up his coffee and went back to his office to do just that, but once he was sitting at his desk, he opened the drawer containing Chris Argent’s weapons. He and Stiles had watched some show a couple years back where these supernatural hunters had had symbols etched into their weapons to help them fight the monsters. Was that something else he could learn from TV?

There were no symbols on the gun; nothing to set it apart from a gun purchased from Wal-Mart. The cop in him gave a quick sniff as he turned it over in his hands, but all he smelled was gun oil from a recent cleaning. The knife was a little more interesting.

"Silver coated," he muttered in disbelief. "Seriously."

The sheriff now had absolutely no doubt that the man knew about werewolves, but it only gave him a new question: would Chris Argent have condemned his sister’s actions, or joined in?

.o0o.

"I can't believe you were that reckless." Chris was angry, so very angry, but Kate just laughed.

"What? It's not like we were getting anywhere using your method."

"You told Allison–"

"Allison’s a big girl," Kate said with a sneer. "She deserves to know the truth."

Chris took a breath. "You broke the Code–"

Kate slumped onto the table. "Oh my _god_ , Chris. This isn't the eighteenth century!"

He ground his teeth so hard it gave him an instant headache. "And you exposed us all to the police." He held up his hand to stop whatever comment she might make. "An organization we as a family rely on for our income."

She sat up, tossing her hair. "One little town–"

"One large county," he corrected. "Connected to a very large state. They all talk to each other–at conferences, during investigations." Kate finally dropped the sneer, but he couldn't stop–didn’t want to. "Selling guns to law enforcement is a lucrative and advantageous business, but it’s also very tenuous. One whiff of something 'not quite right' and no cop, no department, will come near us. You've never been involved in that part of the family business, but _I am_." He paused; took a breath. "If they start to _investigate_ –"

"Fine! I misjudged," she spat, only half apologetic. "But how was I to know that brat would be sneaking around?"

"Maybe because he’s _the sheriff’s son_ ,” he snarled. “And he’s _always_ around? Or were you not listening when we told you that?"

Kate sat, unhappy but mercifully quiet. For about five seconds.

"Maybe he's the second beta," she said and Chris shook his head. Didn't she understand that finding the alpha was the least of her problems now? Yes, they had good lawyers, but she’d been caught in the act. There was no way she was walking away from this clean and fresh. And _his_ family would be washed in her taint.

“I called Gerard,” he said knowing it would make her stop. “He wasn’t impressed.” As if it needed to be said.

She stared at him. Kate didn’t like their father any more than he did—they had the same memories of growing up under his so-called care, after all—but she’d always been more willing to go along with Gerard, more willing to play the dutiful child, than Chris. It had bought her a lot more toys than Chris had ever had, more money and—in some ways—more freedom. He’d never resented her for it. As the next head of the Argent clan, Kate had had a lot more pressure on her to be perfect. It wouldn’t protect her now, though.

“You bastard.”

This time Chris sneered. “You’d better hope you get sent someplace he can’t reach you, because compared to him, jail’s probably a cake walk.”

.o0o.

 

Peter could smell them: Argents. Defilers.

He could also smell other humans, untainted. Officers of the law, just doing their jobs. He would try not to damage them, but nothing was going to stop him from getting to his prey.

He stretched his neck, hearing it crack, and started the shift. This was going to be fun…

.o0o.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a friend who's developed a deathly allergy to basil. When we go out to eat, it's amazing how many dishes use basil...


	6. The Wheel of Fate has Rusty Cogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everybody wants to meet Peter. Peter doesn't care.

When Sheriff Stilinski heard the crash, he figured Lassiter had broken something again. When he heard the gun shots, he ran out of his office. He’d forgotten he still had Argent’s silver knife, but there was no time to put it back. He quickly switched it to his left hand, holding it as if it was a flashlight.

He came to the door of the interrogation room. Haigh wasn’t at the door. The sheriff could see his back as the deputy went through to the front room.

There was a hard roar, a couple more shots, and another loud crash.

“Tara!” the sheriff shouted. “Break out the heavy gear. Stiles! Grab a vest, put it on, and then go into my office!” Stiles opened his mouth. “No arguments!” he yelled, but Tara had already dragged Stiles over to the equipment locker. Newman’s vest had been slung on the back of his chair, and he had it halfway back on.

Behind Stilinski, the conference door opened and Chris Argent popped his head out. “What’s going on?” There was gunfire, a crash and an almighty roar from the front reception area.

Well,” the sheriff drawled. “I believe we’re under attack by a mythological creature. But you’d know more about that than I. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Argent.”

A brief hesitation. “I need my gun.”

“Top right drawer of my desk,” he said. He pulled a key out of his pocket. “Take your sister and get into a cell at the back. They’re built to withstand people hyped on PCP.”

“It might not be enough.”

Stilinski looked at the man, looking for signs of panic, shiftiness, or plotting. Anything to suggest Argent was exaggerating the danger. There was nothing. “Fuck me,” he muttered.

“This is a secure area,” he said just loud enough to be heard over the fighting in the front. “All entrances feed through reception, so it’s the best we’ve got.”

After a moment spent swallowing curses, Argent nodded and disappeared back into the conference room. By then Stiles was beside him. “Dad?” His voice wobbled and he sounded much younger than his sixteen years.

“Hide,” the sheriff said firmly. “I’ll come find you.”

Stiles nodded then dove in for a quick, fierce hug. “Be careful.”

The sheriff didn’t even have time to reply before Stiles let go and ran towards the office. It wasn’t as secure as the cells, but Stilinski was happy with his son’s choice. He wanted to keep Stiles as far away from Kate Argent as possible. He didn’t know what was out there—Derek Hale, fully shifted, perhaps—but he was pretty sure she was the target.

“You ready?” Deputy Graeme was holding her shotgun. Beside her Newman shoved a final shell into his Remington 870P. Stilinski nodded.

The gunfire in the front was slowing down. He could hear Haigh half-screaming, like he couldn’t stop even though he didn’t have enough breath. He was the one who’d started calling Deputy Lassiter “Lassie”. As belittling as the nickname could be, it hid a fierce protectiveness. Haigh’s continuous shout meant either he was in pain, or Lassiter was. It was time to act.

The door exploded inwards before they reached it.

A large piece of the door frame hit Newman, knocking him over a desk. The sheriff and Tara ducked covering their heads with their arms. He could feel the shards hitting him, digging in. Stiles was going to be upset.

Once the initial barrage was over, he lowered his arms and re-aimed his weapon. “That’s far enough!” he shouted. Then he registered what he was looking at.

It was huge, was his first thought. Half again as tall as he was. It was also dark and very furry, and its eyes glowed a nasty, bright red. It roared at him, showing fangs—there was no other word to describe them—and flexing large hands that ended in very pointy claws.

“Stand down,” the sheriff ordered, with more hope than force. The creature tipped its head as if surprised. Then its lips curled in what could’ve been a smile, or a sneer. Whatever it was it was damn creepy. “Son, I know you got a legitimate grievance, but I’ve still gotta try to stop you.”

That expression was definitely closer to a sneer. It tensed, getting ready to pounce. The sheriff adjusted his stance. It opened its mouth showing off large, pointy teeth and the boom of Newman’s shotgun filled the room.’

The creature stepped back, but didn’t go down. It roared in defiance, and left with little alternative, the sheriff opened fire. Soon, all his deputies were emptying their clips into it. It was getting hit from the other side as well. Two guns, so Stilinski knew Haigh and Lassiter were both alive. Damaged, most likely, but not dead.

Unfortunately, the same could be said for the creature. It reached behind into the front room and pulled Lassiter to it. It lifted the young man a good foot off the ground before tossing him, quite casually, into Tara and making them both fly over a desk. It lifted a leg and kicked the desk into both of them. The desk slid so fast it blurred. There was a horrible crunching sound.

“Graeme! Lassiter!”

“Just my arm. I think,” she answered and the sheriff let out a breath. “Not sure about Lassie.”

The beast, which had been eyeing Sheriff Stilinski like a prime steak, whipped its head towards her.

“Hey!” the sheriff yelled to get its attention back to him. “That’s assaulting an officer,” he said. Then he shot it between the eyes.

Finally, it fell down.

.o0o.

 

Chris held his gun in one hand and his cell in the other. He’d already given Kate his back up piece, so he knew she had his back while he called Victoria.

“Chris,” she answered calmly. Her level tones never failed to soothe him.

“The alpha’s here. Sheriff thinks Kate’s the target and I agree.”

“I see. Weapons?”

“Not enough,” he responded succinctly. “Who have we got left?”

“Rodriquez and Shortt are still in town. I’ll call them. But, Chris, it’ll take us thirty minutes to get to the station.” Worry finally creeped into her tone.

“I’ll do my best.” He hesitated a moment, his eyes cutting towards his sister. He hadn’t put her in the cell like the sheriff ordered, and she didn’t bother hiding her interest in his conversation with his wife. She also didn’t bother hiding the mocking curl of her lip.

He hunched over his phone. “I love you. And Allison,” he said quietly. “Make sure she knows that.”

“Of course,” Victoria said. Then she hung up. Chris tucked the phone back into his pocket.

“You two; you’re so romantic,” Kate mocked. “Gives me the warm fuzzies.”

“Shove it,” he snarled even as he felt his cheeks heat. He ignored her chuckles to concentrate on the action down the hall.

“We should go down there,” Kate said. “Attack it before we’re trapped.”

“Victoria needs thirty minutes.”

Kate shrugged, laughing. “Oh well, then. By all means, let’s sacrifice the good sheriff and his deputies for our own survival.” Chris didn’t like it, but it was true: Stilinski’s defense—no matter how futile—would buy Victoria the time she needed to organize an effective attack force.

It was hard to listen to it, though. He could hear them, firing away with their useless bullets. He ignored the voice telling him to help, telling him he should be protecting the innocents by reminding himself that the deputies weren’t civilians, that they were capable and skilled. There was a pause in the gunfire followed by an almighty crash. A single shot; then quiet. He focused his hearing, trying to pick up what was going on.

“I hope they bring incendiaries,” Kate said and broke his concentration. “I like the way they burn.”

.o0o.

 

Stiles was freaking out.

His father had changed the combination on his gun safe, but there was a theme to the sheriff's codes so Stiles knew he'd figure it out. It was just that it took _time_.

He could hear the fighting. The alpha roaring, the deputies—people he’d known for years—firing at it with useless bullets. That was his _dad_ out there. Vulnerable.

He had some essential oil made with wolfsbane in a jar in his backpack (because _werewolves_ ), and he could dip bullets into it. Fill a magazine with them, grab his father's backup gun, and go out there and _help_.

It was better than being stuck in here, listening to his dad's possible death.

.o0o.

 

Sheriff Stilinski wanted to believe that the downed werewolf was going to stay down. That he had killed it and his people were now safe. He didn’t believe it though. In no movie or book he’d read, did the rampaging monster ever stay down the first time. However, he couldn’t just go up and shoot the thing, because that would violate everything he stood for as an officer of the law.

He also didn’t want to get too close to the werewolf. For one, he’d bet his next five cheeseburgers that handcuffs would be useless at holding it, and two he plain didn’t want to get in arms reach of the thing, because according to all the lore, that’s when the creature would revive.

Keeping his gun aimed at it, he edged sideways towards his downed deputies. “Graeme!”

“Still here, Sheriff.” Her voice was strained, but calm.

“Lassiter?”

“He’s out, but breathing.” Newman answered, so Stilinski knew they were both okay. He called Haigh and received a tired groan in reply. Then Haigh’s voice was drowned out by the werewolf’s low grunt, and Stilinski froze.

He heard his office door creak. “No, no, no,” he muttered. He shifted back closer to the corridor. “Stiles stay back!”

Stiles, of course, ignored him. “I’ve got something that will help,” his boy shouted as he trotted into danger. “Wolfsbane bullets.”

It hurt to find out that his son knew enough to carry anti-werewolf ammunition with him into the Preserve. In the middle of the night. It meant the Argents hadn’t been the only ones who hadn’t warned him of the real dangers facing the people of his county. The sheriff turned to growl at Stiles. 

The creature roared and sprang to its feet. It had lost its body fur, and most of the hair was gone from its face, and now looked like… “Peter Hale?” the sheriff blurted in surprise. It had been a theory—a supposedly wild-ass and improbable theory—and he’d pat himself on the back later for having thought of it. For now, he’d just do his best not to show and fear.

“That’s me,” Hale said, stretching his neck and rotating his shoulders. “And I’m here to get the bitch who burned up my family.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Stilinski said firmly. “The courts—”

“Are worthless!” Hale lifted his top lip revealing his wolf-like canines. “As for stopping me, I don’t think you have a chance.” He flung out his hands, showing off long claws. The sheriff lifted his gun, ready to put another bullet into Hale’s head.

Then Stiles stepped out and fired his weapon. The bullet hit Hale square in the chest, just how the sheriff had trained his son to do it. Hale staggered, one hand lifted to his wound. His features reformed into something more human. He looked surprised. He coughed, curling into himself, and the sheriff hoped that Stiles’ bullets had done the trick.

Stiles laughed in shocked triumph.

Peter Hale looked up at them, and sneered. Right at Stiles.

“Oh shit!” Stiles said.

Hale jumped.

Stilinski didn’t think. He stepped in front of his son. When Peter Hale collided with him, the momentum toppled them both the floor. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder, pin-pricks and tearing both. Kevlar wasn’t as effective against sharp weapons and Peter Hale’s teeth and claws both qualified.

“Dad! Oh my god, Dad!” Stiles shouted.

The sheriff pushed the pain aside and fired, emptying his clip into Hale’s body mass. Hale let go of his shoulder and roared right in the sheriff’s face.

Stilinski roared back. Under the noise, Stiles shouted, "Dad! Dad! No, no, no!" in a continuous loop.

“Use the knife!” Chris Argent shouted from the cell area. Hale’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing.

Sheriff Stilinski would’ve cursed, but his shoulder was radiating pain through his chest. He could feel the blood rolling towards his back. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened. He was out of bullets.

Stiles still had a gun. “Dad? Oh my god, Dad! Are you okay?”

Not even close, he wanted to say. “Shoot him,” Stilinski said instead.

With eyes wide in fear and a jaw tight with determination, Stiles did exactly that. The special bullet made Hale’s claws retract, and he curled around the bullet hole. It was enough to force Hale off him, writhing as the fur and the fangs seemed to melt back into a completely normal body.

Stilinski rolled onto his side. He pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall, dropping his useless weapon and holding his hand out to Stiles. “I’m out of bullets,” Stiles said in horror. “I only had time to dip a couple.”

Stiles was staring at the bloody bite in the sheriff’s shoulder. Stilinski knew why. He’d watched the same movies as his son. He knew what it meant when a werewolf bit you, but right now it was more important to stop Peter Hale who was groaning, a sign of his immanent recovery no doubt.

The sheriff shifted so he was crouched on his feet. He needed the wall to brace himself, but it was still less vulnerable than sitting on his ass. At the edge of his hearing, Chris was yelling at his sister. He ignored it: getting Stiles to safety was more important. “Go to Tara,” he ordered his son. “Get her out from under the desk.”

“I’m not going to leave you!”

“Yes, you are.” Stilinski kept his voice steady. “You’re going to see to their injuries. You’re going to call someone who can deal with this.”

“Thank you for the perfect entrance line,” Kate Argent said. She was completely unrestrained, strutting down the corridor with a gun in her hand and a smile on her face. “I’ll deal with the monster, and then I’ll deal with you.”

“Kate!” her brother protested from down the hall.

“You won’t touch him,” Stiles said. His jaw tightened.

Her smiled deepened. “The alpha bit him, little man. You know what that means.”

“I won’t let you hurt him!” Stiles was scrabbling across the floor, hunting for the sheriff’s dropped weapon. Kate was watching him.

She should’ve been watching Peter Hale.

The werewolf—the alpha—rose up from the floor like a furred shadow. One clawed hand grabbed her by the neck, piercing the skin and pulling her head back. The other curled around her shoulders. “ _I_ think,” he oozed satisfaction. “You’ll never hurt anyone again.” Hale readied his claws, lips pulled back in enjoyment of the moment. His eyes lit in triumph…

The sheriff pushed against the pain, breathing in pants so that he could plan his attack…

The sharp boom of Chris Argent’s 9mm filled the station. Large red holes appeared in Hale’s side. He jerked, and Kate Argent pulled from his grasp—not unharmed, but not dead either. The sheriff couldn’t think about that now. This was his chance…

He pushed off from the wall, using his feet to gain power. He already had Chris Argent’s silver knife. It was the work of a moment to drive the blade in under Peter Hale’s ribs. He angled it up, searching for the heart, or the lungs, even the liver.

Hale snarled, twisted towards him, dislodging the blade. The sheriff pushed it back in.

This time he had a better angle, and the knife found its target. Hale’s eyes widened in shock. His face relaxed. The sheriff stared into Hale’s eyes as the life fled from his body—pale eyes going sightless and open.

The wound in Stilinski’s shoulder flared.

Fire raced through his blood. He could feel it in every vein, every cell. He pulled air into his lungs in huge gasps, but the centrally-heated air couldn’t put out the fire burning through him. He screamed an endless roaring of fire and flames, of rising tides and changing weather. It swirled inside him. It lifted him up. It pulled him under. Choking him with its power…

“Dad! Dad! Dad!” It was a chant. In a voice he knew. He could focus on that voice. Use it to fight the tide.

There were ambulance sirens in the distance. So familiar, and he remembered that he wasn’t the moon—he was a cop. Fire rolled through him, tightening his muscles until he thought his spine would snap. He’d been trained to work through his pain. He hadn’t quite forgotten how. He panted like a woman in labor until the spasm passed. “What’s happening to me?” he ground out.

“You killed him,” Stiles said. “You killed the alpha.”

As an explanation, it was a little lacking in details…

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Stiles said too fast. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Bullshit.” The fire was receding; he was in pain but he wasn’t burning. Hallelujah. “What does it mean?” He caught movement in the edge of his vision. He tipped his head to see.

Chris Argent knelt beside his sister, hands pressed on the gouges in her neck. “Don’t fucking die on me,” he ordered. Kate’s only response was a raised middle finger. The sheriff decided she’d probably live. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

He rolled his head back to face his son. “What does it mean? To kill the alpha?”

It was Argent who answered. “Since you were bitten, it means you become the alpha in his place.”

Stilinski looked at his son who had to have researched the _shit_ out of this. Stiles stared back at him with red eyes and wet cheeks, barely able to form words .

The sheriff let out a breath. “Ah, hell.”

.o0o.

 


	7. Thrones are for Lesser Beings

“So we're going to do nothing?" Victoria snarled. “Just let him walk around unchecked?” Allison’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

"He's the _sheriff,_ " Chris reminded her.

Her mother stroked her neck as she thought. "I suppose it is too soon after he exposed Kate."

“Mom!” Allison saw her father’s jaw tighten so much it looked painful. She, on the other hand, had to pick hers up from around her knees.

"He hasn't actually broken the Code," Dad ground out.

“Yeah, that,” Allison supported him. She liked the Code. It could use a little work (it left too much open to interpretation) but it was better than “it’s different and scary: let’s kill it” which seemed to be the hunter default.

“He’s in a position of authority—”

“Which he’s never abused. Even to protect his son,” her father argued. Yay, dad!

Her mother just lifted one shoulder, completely dismissing Dad’s argument. Her mother had always been ruthless, but this bordered on obsessive stupidity. Not only was it reckless and premature, it was also just… _wrong._

“Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?” Allison asked.

Her mother shot her a withering glare and part of Allison wanted to scrunch down, make herself small and insignificant. Just like a lesser wolf to the alpha, she realized. It wasn’t the _werewolves_ who were acting like animals. It was them. Her family.

She straightened her spine. “No, seriously. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’, right. I think our Code should be, I don’t know… ‘We protect those who can’t protect themselves’. Or, even shorter, ‘to serve and to protect’.”

“Allison,” her mother said in tone you’d use on a small child. “Werewolves don’t have a Code. They’re animals—”

“Wrong. They’re people too.” Allison lifted her chin even higher, ignoring her thundering heart. “This isn’t 16th century France. We’re Americans in the 21st century, and everyone is supposed to have rights. Even serial killers and pedophiles.”

“And that’s a good thing?” her mother asked, one eyebrow up disdainfully.

“Do you go out and kill _them_?” Allison shot back. “Do you kill the completely human monsters, too? Or do they get a pass because it’s enough to just look human.” Her mother looked disgruntled, but Allison got the feeling that it wasn’t because she’d scored a point about hypocrisy. Rather that her mom would _love_ to kill serial killers and pedophiles.

However, that’s not what Victoria said when she finally spoke. “What will you say when Sheriff Stilinski’s instincts take over at a murder scene, and more people are hurt?"

“It’s not going to happen,” Allison crossed her arms defensively. “He’s got anchors.”

“Being a policeman isn’t an anchor,” her father said, still in that condescendingly soothing tone.

“It’s _an_ anchor,” she argued. “He’s got more. We have to give him a chance. Every being deserves that.” Her parents exchanged looks. Allison crossed internal fingers and hoped she hadn’t misjudged the sheriff.

Her mother lifted one elegant brow at her husband. “I guess we’ll find out how good his control is when your father gets here.”

.o0o.

 

“Stop!” The sheriff pointed his finger at his son and his best friend who (he'd just discovered) was also a werewolf and therefore his beta—whatever the hell that meant. "You threw lacrosse balls at Scott?"

Scott nodded, eager and helpful. "It helped me learn how to control my temper and my shift." Stiles looked ridiculously proud at the boy’s words.

Unbelievable.

Lacrosse balls were hard and left nasty round bruises. He’d seen his son with enough of them to know they hurt.

To think that _his son_ would believe doing that to his best friend was better than telling an adult—telling _him_ —what was going on…?

He could feel his heart speed up, feel the need to lash out at Stiles—at them both—until they _understood_ how wrong they’d been. Until they knew who was the boss. Until they submitted…

Instead, the sheriff lifted his hands to his hips, relishing the feel of his belt, weighted down with his gun, handcuffs, extra clips, mace, and the rest of his gear. It steadied him, like it always did. Nowadays, since Peter Hale’s attack, he needed the reminder of what he was more than ever.

"You think I need help controlling my temper." It was a statement not a question but both boys nodded anyway, eyes earnest and wide.

"The same temper that should've exploded when I learned my son had been lying to me for nearly six months,” he continued. “About _everything_. Including werewolves, dead bodies, and fake animal attacks? _My son_ ,” he emphasized, “who put himself, his best friend, and the whole town in danger because he didn’t trust me to protect him or myself. _That_ temper?”

The boys snuck ‘oh shit’ glances at each other.

It was an action the sheriff was very familiar with: eyebrows moving, lips twitching, feet shuffling without actually changing positions. They’d been doing it in one form or another since he’d first called them on their bullshit. (They’d been six and blamed the missing cookies on a stray dog that’d used superpowers to open the jar. Needless to say, the sheriff hadn’t believed them.)

It was a good reminder that yelling at Stiles wouldn’t help. It would just acerbate his ADD and encourage him to keep _more_ secrets in a nearly obsessive need to appear perfect after some kid had called him ‘defective’ in third grade.

No, the best method of dealing with Stiles’ stupidest ideas was to redirect his thought patterns—give him new input…

Sheriff Stilinski lifted a hand and pushed out his claws.

Both boys’ eyes widened dramatically at the smooth transformation, and the sheriff nearly rolled his eyes. Neither of them should’ve been surprised that he was working on gaining control of himself. Claws and fangs were weapons just like guns and Tasers. He’d be a bad cop if he didn’t know how to handle all the tools at his disposal.

Still, it was fun to see their frightened awe.

“Sooo…” he drawled, flicking his chin with his claws, snickering inside when Scott swallowed. “I talked to Derek Hale.

“You did?” Stiles squeaked.

“I did,” he confirmed regally, “It seems that, now I’m a werewolf, I have super-human healing.”

“Yeah?” Stiles’ response was drawn out and filled with caution. Smart boy.

“Steak.”

“Steak?” Stiles’ voice went impossibly high.

“Steak,” the sheriff repeated. “Nice, juicy T-bone. Or maybe double-cheeseburger with fries. These shall be added to the menu, and kale salad will be banished.”

“But, _Dad!_ ”

“I have spoken, and so it shall be,” he said, letting his grin show. “After all, I _am_ the alpha.”

 

_…Fin?_

 

 

 

**\---------------**

**Long Author’s Note:**  
  
  
I wrote this after rewatching most of season 1. Maybe because it was the second time and I’m less forgiving of its flaws, maybe I’m just more sensitive to the issue, but this time ‘round, Allison’s reaction to seeing Kate torture Derek struck me as… off. And very wrong.  
  
I love my family, I do, but if I saw one of them electrocuting someone for fun, my automatic assumption wouldn’t be that I needed to “be strong” and join them. It would be to freak out. (Actually, my first response would be probably be to check that everyone had safe words and condoms, because I’ve been reading fan fiction for a looooong time.)  
  
Anyways, back to Allison’s reaction…  
  
Since Show made a thing of Chris and Victoria raising Allison “normally”, she probably would’ve signed the same “free the whales” petition my daughter signed. She would be disgusted by puppy mills and slaughtering elephants for their tusks. This is the current social normative for a North American teenager of reasonable affluence. Yet, Allison almost instantly accepted the idea that Derek was automatically guilty of something because he wasn’t human. Somehow it was okay to hate him, because he wasn’t the same as her.  
  
Racial profiling, anyone?  
  
Racial profiling is one result of fear culture fostered by the news and various extremist and/or fundamentalist organizations. Fear culture supports the erosion of civil rights for certain classes of people. The erosion of civil rights leads to the end of “non-approved” people’s ability to choose their own life. Therefore, fear culture is, to my mind, a Very Bad Thing and we should do everything we can to fight it.  
  
Which leads to my second point: torture should never be okay.  
  
Torture’s not about information. It is about revenge, and about not feeling “weak”. Torture, like rape, is about power.  
  
TV shows and movies use torture as a device to shorten the interrogation process, and in just about every instance we see, the information the victim gives is accurate and useful.  This is not true. Studies show that torture does not provide accurate information, nor is it the quickest or easiest way to obtain information. Empathy, even false empathy, works much better. Empathy is slow, and I understand why writers don't use it, but every time we see someone beat or shoot a suspect on TV or in movie and not get in trouble for breaking the law, it reinforces the idea that it is okay “in certain circumstances”.   
  
I repeat, torture should never be okay.  
  
Finally, after all those deep thoughts, the other reason I wrote this was because Teen Wolf fandom needs more Papa Stilinski fics. Like, seriously. If you have any recommendations, please give them to me.  


**Research and Tru Fax:**  
  
In California, police do have to stop asking you questions once you’ve invoked your right to counsel. That’s why Stilinski doesn’t ask Kate a question: he muses out loud. I did get the idea of Stilinski listening on the conversation between Chris and Kate from a cop show, but nothing I found in various law websites said it wasn’t legal so I kept it in. If anyone with greater knowledge of the California legal system knows different, please let me know.  
  
U.N. Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment. Ratified 1984. Full document available here: [www.un.org](http://www.un.org/documents/ga/res/39/a39r046.htm)  
  
I quoted dialogue from the beginning of 1.11 (Formality), and a line or two from a couple other episodes. I make no claim of authorship.  
   
  
**Beacon County Deputies**  
   
Thanks to the teen wolf wikis at [Teen_Wolf_Wikia](http://teenwolf.wikia.com/wiki/Teen_Wolf_Wiki) and [Teen Wolf Wiki](http://www.teenwolfwiki.com/). There's not a lot of info about the deputies (so many of them die before they're even named, they oughta be wearing red shirts) but I did the best I could.  
  
Tara Graeme’s long tenure as a deputy is canon (3.09, The Girl Who Knew Too Much). The hiring dates of Haigh and Cordova aren’t specified in show so I’ve used them here.  
  
The female civilian officer at whom Derek smiles (2.02, Shape Shifted) isn’t named, so I’ve called her Rita.  
  
Parrish isn’t included because it’s been stated in show that he was “drawn” to Beacon Hills, likely by the reactivation of the Nemeton in Season 3A. Much too late for this fic.


End file.
